


scots and sassenachs and spankings, oh my!

by orphan_account



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Dom/sub Play, F/M, Kink Negotiation, More Whipping, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire explores Jamie’s sadistic side and finds, much to her surprise, that she likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scots and sassenachs and spankings, oh my!

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I don’t own anything but a copy of the Outlander series.
> 
>  **Author's Notes** : Title comes from a book by Valerie Estelle Frankel, about feminism and gender roles in “Outlander.”

“Oh Jamie.” I moaned as he cupped my buttocks in the palm of his hands and squeezed.

It had been a week since my new husband had taken his belt to my backside and beaten me for disobeying orders. We talked at great length after the incident, and I now better understood Jamie’s position and why he’d felt it necessary to resort to physical violence when chastising me. He’d been right about that much, at least: that the _thwack_ of his belt on my bare arse drove home the seriousness of my transgression better than merely a lecture would have!

In the immediate aftermath of my punishment I had kicked Jamie out of my bed, but it wasn’t long before I invited him back and we were all over each other (though Jamie was initially careful to avoid groping my bottom, knowing from his own experience how tender I would be — and most likely wanting to avoid being skewered by the sharp end of my dirk).

We’d reached an equilibrium, which gave me a chance to think about my situation. I knew full-well that what Jamie had done to me would be considered wife-beating, but even in my own time it wasn’t uncommon for husbands to discipline their wives. I was lucky in that Frank had never felt the need or found cause to raise his hand to me. But what had roused my ire with Jamie wasn’t the beating itself but the use of his strength against me when he’d promised to protect me.

I was stirred from my thoughts by a particularly sharp thrust of Jamie’s cock against my core, and I groaned, clutching Jamie to me and riding the waves of our passion.

As we lay entwined afterward, the sweat cooling on our sated bodies, I returned to my previous train of thought. Though the thrashing I had endured hurt like hell at the time, by now the pain had faded to a pleasurable tingle. And, I was shocked to discover, I wanted more: I wanted Jamie to hurt me, and then to ease that hurt by making sweet love to me; I wanted to experience the ritualistic humiliation of being stripped bare and made to bend over, thus exposing my bottom to the relentless lash of my husband’s belt, and then for the pain of the welts he inflicted to fade to that pleasurable tingle I was currently experiencing and which, I had found, heightened the experience of sex between us.

Jamie, as he had freely admitted to me already, enjoyed my punishment and had found it necessary to later restrain himself from “rogering” me as he put it. I was sure he would go along with my proposition, no questions asked.

I rolled over onto my side and propped myself up on one elbow, peering down at Jamie in the flickering candlelight. “Jamie,” I began cautiously. We were still learning about each other, and now that I came to it, I wasn’t at all confident that he would give in to me without any qualms.

“Sassenach,” he whispered breathily in reply.

I remained silent for several moments, working up the courage to voice my request. “I want you to beat me with your belt, and then to roger me rigid,” I blurted out at last, all in a rush.

Jamie remained motionless, apparently taking the time to process my words. He then sat up, towering over me, while I hurried to do likewise — and thereby level the playing field, so to speak, despite the already-equalizing factor of our nakedness.

“Did I hear you right, Claire?” He stared at me a moment and I looked back at him expectantly, waiting patiently. “You want me”—he spoke very slowly, as though to work out some hidden meaning to my words—“to beat ye”—I felt my heartbeat race in anticipation to hear him give voice to my newfound desire—“with my belt, and then to “roger you rigid,” to use your own words. Is that it?”

“Yes, exactly,” I said, smiling shyly in his direction and not quite daring to meet his penetrating gaze.

“But why?” he asked, “when last time I did so you threatened me with a dagger and I swore an oath to never hurt ye again. What changed?”

In response I took his hand in mine and guided it to encircle my breast. “Now squeeze,” I directed him. He did so, and I gasped (perhaps a bit theatrically, but still), a sign that Jamie knew meant that I was aroused. Next I encouraged him to take my still-bruised buttocks in his hands and squeeze, much as he had during our love-making of a few minutes ago. I gasped again, and he smiled in satisfaction and as realization dawned.

“Ye like it,” he said, awe-struck, and squeezed again in wonder, eliciting the same response from me as before: I gasped and arched into his touch.

“More, Jamie. I want more,” I begged him. “Will you give it to me?”

“Aye, lass, I will — and gladly.”

* * *

 It was another week, though, before Jamie would consent to thrash me — this time for pleasure rather than as a means of punishing me. He’d insisted on waiting until my bruises had fully faded, not wanting to cause me any more pain than was necessary.

On a night like any other, as we sat in the dining hall where toasts were being drunk and songs being sung, Jamie eyed me from his seat across the table and bore down on my foot. “It’s time, lass,” he said, “Up to our room with ye, and wait for me.”

I nodded, dipping my head all the way to my chest in a show of respect and subservience, indicating to Jamie my willingness to cooperate with him — in this one instance, at least! As I rose to my feet and meandered through the gathered throng, finally reaching the stairs, I thought about the coming evening. During the past week Jamie and I had discussed many things, chief among them being how far I wanted to go, how far I wanted Jamie to take me.

I’d asked Jamie to send me up to our room first, to give me time alone to think. I wasn’t to do anything, certainly not undress — my humiliation would be meaningless and non-existent if Jamie weren’t there to witness it, to order me to undress for him and bare myself for his pleasure.

For this one evening, at least, I was Jamie’s to do with as he liked!

I sat at the foot of our bed and tried to prepare myself. I’d asked for this, after all. I tried to envision what would happen, for soon enough I would be bent over this very same bed-frame to receive the lash of my husband’s belt.

I closed my eyes: Jamie would enter, throwing open the door, bold as brass. He would shut the door behind him and bolt it, ensuring our privacy (it wouldn’t do to be disturbed during an intimate moment like what he intended for me!). I would stand, nervously shifting from foot to foot like a naughty child about to be scolded and subsequently dealt with. And that’s just how Jamie would treat me: he’d order me to stand in the center of the room while he sat in my place at the foot of our bed. Then he’d beckon me closer, taking my hands in his and turning them over so that he could kiss my wrists. My eyes would flutter shut and I’d breathe a sigh of relief: _He’s not going to go through with it; he can’t bear to see me hurt like that again, to be responsible for my pain._

But I’d be wrong, oh so very wrong. He’d turn me around and unlace my dress, then peel back layer after layer until I was standing before him in nothing but my shift, shivering from the cool scrutiny of his gaze. “Ye look beautiful, lass,” he’d say, drawing me down onto his lap. And we’d kiss for a while, forgetting all about the terrible thrashing he’d promised me and that he still intended to deliver. But then he’d abruptly throw me to the floor and I’d lie in a crumpled heap at his feet.

“Jamie, what’s the meaning of this?” I’d say. “What are you going to do?”

“I plan to give ye just what ye deserve, Sassenach,” he’d reply, unbuckling his belt in such a way as to send shivers down my spine, borne of equal parts desire and fear. “From now on I’m going to treat ye the way husbands ought to treat wives!”

“Jamie!” I’d cry out, begging and pleading for mercy as he hauled me upright by my arm, gripping me hard enough to bruise.

“Remove your shift, woman,” Jamie would order, “Else I’ll tear it from your very back!”

I’d do so, my fingers trembling with the effort to untie the laces with steady hands. Jamie would finally grow impatient and slap my hands away. There’d be the sound of ripping, and my shift would fall away in tatters in Jamie’s hands, it having been torn from right off my back just like he promised. He’d then manhandle me over to the bed and shove me face-down in the mattress, making sure to pin both my arms behind my back with his right hand so that I wouldn’t struggle.

Wielding his belt in his left hand, he’d slap it menacingly (but lightly) against my bottom — to warn me that he would soon begin the whipping in earnest. Meanwhile I’d lie still, clenching my buttocks in preparation and hoping to reduce the pain. But Jamie would be clever and wait until I’d relaxed. Only then would he deliver the first searing crack of leather on flesh, a blow that would drive the breath right out of me but which I would accept with better grace than I had in reality. I wouldn’t fight him this time — I’d asked for it, after all — I would lie there and take it.

I could feel the excitement pooling in my belly and a wetness forming between my thighs. Well and good — I would be more than prepared for Jamie to take me after he’d finished lashing my bottom.

The door opened, cutting me off in my thoughts. I glanced up and there was Jamie, looking as handsome and dashing as ever. And quite menacing, too. I would have no problem getting into the proper spirit of the evening and slipping into my prescribed role: that of a dutiful wife submitting to her husband’s harsh but well-deserved discipline.

“My lord,” I said, rising to my feet only to sweep Jamie my finest curtsey. Chancing a glance at him, I could tell that he was impressed by my efforts. I remained in my curtsey, though my legs trembled and threatened to buckle, until Jamie raised me to my feet and graced me with a smile that felt like both a benediction and condemnation rolled into one. I quailed, well-knowing the full measure of his wrath.

“You please me, wife,” was all he said, settling himself on the bed in the spot I had vacated moments before. So far he was behaving just as he had in my imagination. I calmed myself, reminded that this was done only in jest, as a game, and that Jamie wasn’t truly upset with me; I had done nothing wrong. Besides, I had asked for this, hadn’t I?

Jamie sat watching me, considering, while I gazed demurely at the floor and awaited my husband’s next command. At Jamie’s continued silence, though, I became more nervous still, and clasped my hands tightly together behind my back so that Jamie wouldn’t see them tremble. Jamie, too, seemed at a loss. But I had vowed to say and do nothing that he did not order me to do, and so I kept my silence as he kept his.

At last he motioned me forward. I approached and stood nestled between his knees. As he reached for me to draw me down onto his lap (again, just like in my waking dream), I noticed that he was also trembling. I settled myself on top of him and let him rest his head against my breast.

“Now that we come to it,” he whispered into my skin, “I don’t know if I can do as ye ask, if I can beat you merely for the fun of it, to satisfy my own pleasure.”

“Permission to speak, my lord?” I dared ask.

“Granted.”

“You said before that you hated to hurt me but that you enjoyed it, too. Try to draw on those feelings again. Remember how angry you were and treat me accordingly. I won’t take offense, I promise. I’ll know it’s just a game and that you don’t really mean anything you might say or do.”

My words seemed to stir something in Jamie, for he wrenched my head back by the roots of my hair and roughly claimed my mouth in a bruising kiss. He seemed to remember himself, though, and just as suddenly softened the kiss before tenderly helping me to my feet. Then, just as I’d pictured him doing, Jamie turned me around and began to unlace my dress, peeling back the many layers I wore until I was standing before him in only my shift. He nodded to me, a wordless command to remove the last offending barrier between him and my naked body.

I let the thin material pool at my feet and fought the irrational urge to cover myself. Jamie had seen me without any clothes on before, after all. Why was this time so different? Because this time he intended to use that strength I so admired against me, to overpower me and cause me considerable pain — and I could do nothing to stop him because I had already given my consent.

Jamie sat watching me, letting me work through my inner turmoil and giving me the chance to turn back, to change my mind and tell him _No, I don’t want this anymore!_ But I couldn’t; I wanted this, I really did (though a part of me wondered who I was trying the hardest to convince: Jamie or myself). And besides, it was a matter of pride and principle by now: once I’d given my word there was no going back on it.

With the gift of a psychic, Jamie seemed to read all this in my eyes and finally approached, but with trepidation. He was still nervous, then. “I think you are so brave,” he told me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “The bravest woman I’ve ever known.” I smiled up at him tremulously, trying to lend him courage that I wasn’t entirely sure I possessed myself. “Kneel down by the bed, lass,” he instructed me.

I did so, listening to the sound of him unbuckling his belt. I felt him lay the doubled-up leather across my trembling flesh and I clenched my muscles in anticipation. “Best if ye relax, mo duinne,” said Jamie coaxingly. I tried to do as he said but I was a bundle of nerves, recalling with distinct clarity the last time that I’d been in this position. “It’ll hurt, Sassenach, I’m not saying it won’t. But the intent is no’ the same as before. That I swear to ye.”

“I know, Jamie,” I said, and calmly crossed my wrists behind my back for him to pin in place.

“No, Claire,” he said in reply, leaving his belt draped across my bottom and repositioning my arms out to the side. “I’ll not restrain ye when you’ve asked for this. You’ll either take it or ye won’t.”

As Jamie again reached for his belt, I likewise reached for a pillow to bury my head in and which I hoped would serve as an anchor for me while I endured this torment that I had set myself. “Are ye ready, Sassenach?” Jamie asked me. I tried to answer him with words but could only nod an affirmative, my entire body quivering — both with fear of the pain to come and excited anticipation of the pleasure that would follow.

In the next instant my bottom was set ablaze as the belt landed with an almighty _crack!_ that rocked me forward and expelled all the breath from my body; pain blossomed and quickly spread outward from the initial point of contact. I buried my face in the pillow and shrieked, pounding my fists against the mattress and stamping my feet on the floor, and only left my cocoon of safety to draw in shuddering gasps of air. Resisting the urge to reach back and cover my vulnerable posterior, I settled myself with a great deal of effort and awaited the next stroke.

The second blow seemed to land even harder, increasing the pain of its predecessor. I squirmed about in a desperate attempt to escape the relentless, burning agony. But as Jamie continued to beat me, flogging my arse with his heavy leather belt, I began to recognize a pattern: he would strike, wait for the pain to build and reach its peak, climaxing, and then lash me again. And I realized that there would be no escape for me, not until Jamie had decided that I’d had enough — either that or he finally grew tired of whacking me, which wasn’t likely!

By the sixth stroke I was breathing deeply, trying to maintain composure between blows. But the belt would land, invariably overlaying previous marks, and I would cry out, despite futile attempts on my part to remain calm. In the week preceding I had told Jamie that though I might beg for mercy, he was to show me none. He didn’t. He layered stroke upon stroke upon stroke until I was sobbing uncontrollably. Just as suddenly, though, he stopped.

I felt a presence at my back, something sharp poking insistently against the cleft of my arse. “Do ye feel that, Sassenach?” Jamie asked me, his voice low and gravelly. I realized then just how hard he was from thrashing me and I wondered if he’d been this hard the last time, when it was for real. How much restraint had he actually needed to avoid giving in to his baser desires, if this was the end-result of punishing me? “That’s what the sight of ye writhing about with my marks on you does to me,” he said, cupping my buttocks in the palm of his hands and squeezing, hard.

Then, just as suddenly, his hands fell away. I was disappointed in the loss of contact and keened pitifully, arching my back and thrusting out my bottom. I should have known that presenting Jamie with the perfect target would be too much to resist: he slapped my already-bruised and thoroughly-thrashed buttocks with the flat of his hand, eliciting from me an animalistic howl of pain that my pillow did little to muffle the sound of.

Jamie continued in this manner for several intense, agonizing minutes. He alternated smacking my right and left arse cheeks to ensure that every inch of my lower half received equal treatment, until my skin was a glowing shade of crimson interspersed with a number of vivid weals that hurt like hell but which were already fading to that pleasurable tingle I had eagerly anticipated. He paused to run his hands along my flank, his tenderness being in sharp contrast to the man who, minutes before, had been whaling away on me with both his belt and hand.

“Ye’re burnin’ up, Claire,” he said, grinning in satisfaction. “Can ye stand a little more?”

“Aye, I can,” I told him, though in reality I wasn’t at all sure that I could.

The next thing I knew was pain, Jamie’s belt again biting into my flesh with renewed and unforgiving zeal. He thrashed me without pause; I counted perhaps a dozen strokes applied to both my buttocks and upper-thighs in rapid succession, the pain building without relief. Then he stopped, laying aside his belt and coming to sit on the bed; he guided my head to rest in his lap and gently stroked my hair, again becoming the kind and considerate man I knew my husband to be. We remained in silence while Jamie patiently waited for me to come back to myself — and to him.

Eventually my sobbing slowed and then stopped altogether; a few final tears trickled down my cheeks and dried in sticky streaks. My bottom was throbbing but I felt invigorated and alive. There was clarity in pain, I had found, and I knew that I’d want to experience this again very soon. I reached for Jamie’s hand — his left one, a deliberate choice on my part, as that had been the hand to punish me — and reverently pressed a kiss to the palm. “Thank you,” I whispered, smiling gratefully up at him.

Jamie smiled back at me and I knew he understood. “Now,” he said. “I believe your other request was that I roger you rigid after beating you. Are ye amenable?”

“Please,” I said, scooting onto my back with some difficulty (I had to choke back a cry as my sore bottom made contact with the bed) and spreading my legs for Jamie to nestle between. He slipped a finger into my folds to prepare me; when he drew the digit out again it was glistening.

“Is this all for me?” he asked, grinning in smug delight. “Merely from having your bare arse tanned with my belt?”

“You know it is!” I growled at him. “Now get on with rogering me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said without irony, though he couldn’t resist smirking once more at me as he set to his task.

Our coupling was hard and frantic, and yet gentle, too. It reminded me of our first time together after Jamie had punished me for real, when we had both been trying to master the other — not that there had been a clear winner in the end. On that occasion we learned that we had lost our heart and soul to the other, and were each other’s master as a result.

Tonight we rolled around on the bed like wrestlers in a match. At times I would be on top, then Jamie, and then I would be again. In these moments Jamie would grip my buttocks with a bruising amount of force to guide me up and down as I rode his cock like a bucking horse. We went several rounds before finally collapsing on our backs next to each other, exhausted.

“How d’you feel?” I asked Jamie drowsily, half asleep already and slurring my words as a result.

“My arm’s a bit sore from swinging it all evening,” he admitted.

I sighed contentedly and snuggled closer to Jamie’s naked chest, winding my arms around him and guiding one of his hands down to grope my bottom. “I’ll give you a massage tomorrow,” I promised him. “But the next time maybe you should warm up your arm before warming my bum.” I chuckled to myself at the joke I had made, but there was no such response from Jamie.

“You mean you want to do this again?” he asked, incredulous.

“Of course.” I was surprised by Jamie’s reaction; I would have thought that there was no question of having a repeat performance. “I enjoyed myself immensely. Didn’t you?”

“Oh aye, lass, I did. You know I did. But I didn’t think that _you_ enjoyed it all that much. You struggled so mightily, and ye put up such a fuss!”

“It’s very hard to explain, Jamie. I’m not sure I have the words for it myself. But the struggling. . . it’s all part of the game. Knowing that I could get away if I really wanted, that you’d stop if I told you to — that heightens my enjoyment and increases the overall pleasure. D’you see what I mean?”

“I think so,” Jamie replied slowly. “It’s by knowing that you could put a stop to it but not doing so, and thereby enduring, that you receive pleasure.”

“Exactly!” I was pleased with how quickly he caught on. “But most of all I enjoy the aftereffects of being marked by you. Even now, the welts — they don’t hurt as much as they did when you were whipping me. At first the pain felt like a white-hot branding iron, burning out and out until it consumed me. But now there’s just a pleasant tingle that sends shivers down my spine, especially when you touch me — there!”

Jamie rolled me on top of him and placed his hands on my bottom, the whole of his palms encompassing each of my arse cheeks. He squeezed, poked, and prodded, exploring the various welts that he had so recently inflicted on me. I sighed, giving myself over to Jamie and relaxing into his ministrations.

“I see, Sassenach, I do,” he said at last. “And I promise you that we’ll do this again just as soon as you are well.”

“Thank you, Jamie,” I replied, sliding off him and snuggling into his side. I wanted to tell him that there was no need to wait; I was tough, I could take anything he dished out. But I fell asleep between one thought and the next.

Little did I dream that Jamie remained awake beside me, mourning the fact that he couldn’t have his way with me — not in the way we both craved — until I’d been healed. “Sleep, mo duinne,” he whispered softly in my ear. “You’ll be safe wi’ me, Claire — that I swear to ye, for I shall love you in this world and the next. Until the end of time.”


End file.
